New Year’s Restitution: Get Back What’s Yours

2012 is not a year to screw around. That bitch is going to drop dead once December comes around, so I suggest you grab your list and take a ride with me, because this is how it’s gonna go down.

This isn’t the year of “lose 10 pounds” and “quit smoking.” If I had a dime for every one of those resolutions I’ll hear this next week, followed by an “okay wait I’ll start tomorrow,” I’d be selling pocketfuls of bitches at a dime a dozen. Point blank–stop kidding yourself. 2012 is the year of the Dragon. That means it’s time for you to unleash the beast within and do something super distasteful like flash your tenured PoliSci professor. Get some obscure name tattooed on your ass and give it a different meaning every time someone asks you about it. Or do what I plan to do: wrap up all the shit you’ve ever been given from the guy that fucked you over, have your old-feeble-superstitious-Asian grandmother perform some ancient Filipino voodoo-curse over the box, and then drop it on his doorstep on the eve of the new year. I wish I was joking.

After being charitable, it’s time to take back what’s yours. Jot down a list of the things that rightfully belong to you, and reclaim them over this next year. Side-note: I am a firm believer in never taking back something that you’ve gifted to someone else, especially since I am an excellent gifter when it comes to all things given. However, because certain people proceed to shit all over the friendship/relationship/benefiship after I spent hundreds of dollars and hours of creativity into a gift that you’ll still use, admire, and touch daily while simultaneously referencing me as a “bitch” out of appropriate context, then that’s when I make an exception. No, hoe.

To the token college roommate: You have no right to keep the Andres Torres autographed photo I leaped over crowds to get you the year the Giants won the world series. There is no sense in ending our friendship over a box of stolen girl scout cookies. Take note, ladies–never agree to live with a bitch who cares about girl scout cookies more than your friendship. It never usually turns out. She had major white girl problems.

To the guy that was over two weekends ago: I’m coming for my Fresh Prince t-shirt you said you’d borrow for the night. When I said you were entitled to things in my apartment, I didn’t mean collectibles like pieces of clothing that I’d never sell, not even for auction on eBay. I don’t CARE how sexy it looks on you, that is my motherfucking Carlton t-shirt and it does NOT belong to you.

To the hoes I wasted my time on in high school: I want every single birthday cake I made for all you bitches back in my possession, down my throat, and added to my fat ass. Don’t get me wrong, there will always be some sort of “love” there for you ladies. But, wait, no not really. Give me my cake back. I wanna lick the icing off.

To every ex-boyfriend, ex-thing, ex-fling, ex-schwing I’ve had past the age of seventeen: I want my damn time back. And I’m coming for it. I will collar you on a leash and make you my personal slave of productivity. I’m not bitter, I swear.

And to 2011: I want you to kiss my ass. Lather up them lips and smooch it goodbye. It’s about time I stop before I get too personal.

2012 is around the corner, bitches. Restitution 101: start with the assholes.

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